The Inbetween Years
by spiderfire
Summary: This story explores Javert's life between March 1824, when Valjean disappears into the convent, and 1832. T rating because the streets of Paris, as Hugo presents them, are not a pretty place. Note: This story is on posting hiatus for the moment, while I work on some shorter one shots that occur during the same time period.
1. Prologue - February 1825

Author's notes on the format of this story

1) Javert and the setting are not mine. Most of the incidental characters are. A few are based loosely on historical figures.

2) This is my first attempt at writing a serial story. In the past, my stories have been complete before I shared them. This one, however, is going to be longer and I find that I am excited about the idea of sharing it as I go along. My chapter breaks will be a logical break points in the story. Some of the chapters will be long. These first two are short - sorry about that to people who like long chapters. The next chapter is mostly written and a lot longer. After that, I guess I will see as I go along.

3) I am trying to stay true to the Brick. Any errors are obviously mine. However, if you notice errors, I would appreciate it if you told me! Reviews and comments, critical or otherwise, are welcomed.

* * *

Prologue - February 1825

There was a moment, Javert reflected, when someone knew they were caught. It happened at different times for different people. Sometimes, it was when he walked up to them on the street and he gripped their shoulder, other times it was when the manacles clicked shut around their wrists. In those cases, he could feel it – like a rubber band had snapped in their gut. For others, it was not until later – looking out through the bars of their cell, the judge's gavel coming down, the chains of imprisonment being riveted into place. Once someone was caught, it made an indelible mark on them.

As a young man, by the time he encountered the convicts at Toulon, they were caught. Despite the crushing work, some still had spirit: they tried to escape, they fought back. Spirit or no, when it came down to it, some undefinable part of their being had been altered, forever. It was not until he entered the police force, that he realized that the people he encountered on the street were an entirely different beast. At first, he could not understand why the postures, the attitude, that had served him so well in Toulon were ineffective, even snickered at on the street. He remembered tangibly the first arrest he made when he really understood what it means to catch a criminal. The man had been a cat burglar, sneaking into merchants' houses. As it happened, he had been operating on Javert's beat for several weeks before Javert and his partner caught the guy. Javert grabbed the man and spun him around – and then he saw it. He saw the man's eyes transform and take on something of the expression he had seen in the eyes of the convicts. The man, still holding the stolen tableware, realized what was going to happen to him. Watching this transformation, Javert understood that there was a difference to be studied and exploited.

Over the next few years, Javert made a study of this phenomenon. He studied people in different stages of the criminal justice system – from arrest to closing the door on their cell, to standing as a witness in a criminal trial. He learned he could almost always tell if the person he was dealing with was having their first serious encounter with the law, or not. The recidivist was of particular interest. For some, particularly for the perveyor of small crimes – the pick pockets, the drunks, the petty thefts – they may be arrested time and again and never be truly marked by it. But for those who were caught, Javert found them easy to spot. When he turned his eye on them, his posture held as he had learned in Toulon, they would react – the reaction would be slight, but if you were looking for it, it would be there.

Javert also learned that finding the criminals who had been caught was especially useful for his investigations. Even long after they were released, they knew who held their leash. He knew how to handle them and he could count on them to be effective sources of information about what was really going on. Plus, it did not hurt to keep tabs on them. Wherever he was assigned, he developed such a network of informants.

Seated on the floor of the carriage, Javert leaned his head back against the wall, and stared blankly at the ceiling. Absently, he twisted the manacles on his wrist to attempt to relieve the pain where they rubbed. He had seen it in so many of his collars, he knew himself caught. Honestly, he had been expecting it for days. Habitually scrupulously honest, the strain of the lie he was living was almost beyond bearing. When the knock came on the door of his tiny apartment in small hours before morning, he had almost broken down in relief. Composing himself, he opened the door to see two police officers whom he did not know. What had happened next was professional and quick. Now the adrenalin had flowed from his system and the weariness of the interrupted night was overtaking him. Sitting in the cold, dark of the rocking carriage, he wondered who now held his leash.

* * *

Author's note: This scene is inspired by this passage from Part I, Book II, chapter VI _Jean Valjean_. Quote below from the Denny's translation. "A former turnkey at the prison…recalls the unhappy wretch who was chained at the end of the fourth row on the north corner of the prison yard. He was seated with the rest on the ground and seemed to understand nothing about his situation except that it was hideous...While the heavy hammer-blows riveted the iron collar round his neck, he wept so bitterly…Still sobbing, he raised his right hand and lowered it in stages, as though he were laying it upon seven heads of unequal height, a gesture designed to indicate that what he had done had been for the sake of seven children."


	2. March 1824

March, 1824

It was a week since Javert had closed the net on Jean Valjean and found that the convict had slipped through. After that incident, Javert returned to his own arrondissement and submitted his report. He had done his best to write a true accounting of what had happened. He did not spare himself. He recognized fully that his hubris had led to Jean Valjean's escape.

The day after he submitted the report, the Prefect had called him to his office. "Inspector," he said without any preliminaries as Javert settled into a parade rest. He picked the top two papers on his desk and looked at them briefly. Javert recognized his handwriting from across the desk.

"Yes sir?"

The Prefect pursed his lips. "Are you sure this is the report you want to submit?"

"Yes, sir."

Taking a deep breath, Prefect Delavau nodded. "I was afraid you were going to say that." He picked up the report again and turned it over, shaking his head. "We spoke of this after the last time. You are leaving me no choice, Inspector."

"Sir. Do you have a fault with my report? Do you believe it in error?"

"No. I believe that your report is, perhaps, a bit too honest." As usual, M. Delavau thought to himself.

Javert stiffened but said nothing.

"Inspector, look. Here's how I read this. You heard about a the kidnapping of the child and of a man, a "beggar giving alms", through your network of informants. For some reason, you connect this with Jean Valjean, a convict thought to be dead. Given Valjean's history, however, it was conceivable that he had escaped. Here is the only part of this story I can not condone – you left your assigned _departement_ to go across the city to investigate this beggar without so much as a word to me, to your commissaire_, _ or even your shift sergeant. Regardless, you managed to put eyes on your man and track him to his home. You were not sure and you made the remarkably prudent decision to gather more information, which you did. You got reinforcements as you needed them. You were thorough. In the end, your target got away – not through any action of yours – but because he managed to get over or through or under a wall, that none of our men have managed to pass. I hear from the commissaire of the Petit-Pipcus station that it became quite a sport, for a few days, trying to repeat Valjean's feat. And, here is the kicker, Valjean did that while carrying a small child."

M. Delavau leaned back in his chair as he surveyed the man. Javert held himself rigid, eyes cast down. "Inspector." The prefect waited until Javert looked up. After a moment, he did so. "Inspector, what this report shows me is nothing short of remarkable police work. You connected many different sources of information, some that were directly contradictory and you had Jean Valjean _in your sights_." M. Delavau studied Javert, looking for any indication that he heard the praise. Javert stood, as a if a stone. "Yet, the way you wrote this report, you highlight the mistakes.

"Sir. My report describes the scene as it happened. I hesitated when action was called for – not once, but on at least four occasions."

Delavau looked at Javert, frustrated with his officer. Again. With a deep breath, he said, "Alright, Javert. Have it your way. Dismissed."

M. Delavau shook his head as Javert saluted and left his office. Why did that man make it so hard? The Prefect took a thick file from his desk drawer with Javert's name on it and opened it, flipping through the top few pages. Commendation, reprimand, commendation, reprimand, reprimand, commendation. One of the best inspectors he had, it was a wonder that he could keep him at that rank. With all the reprimands in his file, he should demote him. And every one of those reprimands would not have merited an entry in another officer's file. Some might have even been commendations. He picked up a sheet with the Prefecture letterhead and began another letter of reprimand.


	3. April 1824 - A robbery

Author's note: I said that this chapter would be longer!

* * *

April, 1824

Javert grimaced at the mug of tea. It had grown lukewarm and the mouthful he had just taken was bitter. He quickly gulped down the rest. Setting the cup down, he rubbed his blurry eyes and tried to focus them on the report he was reading during his break. He had been on the night shift for two weeks now, since he had gotten the letter of reprimand, and he had not adjusted to sleeping during the day.

In a few minutes, he'd go back out on the street. Once out in the warm spring air, he would perk up. He had to. The early season warm spell was in its third night, and people were enjoying the summer-like temperatures. Plus, he had a couple green constables on his squad tonight who usually found something to foul up.

He made one more attempt to read the report. It had been sent to him by an acquaintance of some time, a rising star of the police force, Commissionaire Bernard of Chelles. Benard was ten years Javert's junior. He was, in fact, one of the youngest Commissionaires of the police force. While Javert did not always have flattering things to say about his superiors, he had a great deal of respect for Bernard. Javert had been finishing his training as an inspector and he had been assigned to assist Bernard, then a very young Inspector First Class, in a complex murder case. The odds were against them working well together. Bernard came from a well off, connected Parisian merchant family; Javert was an impoverish bastard. Bernard had been to respectable schools; Javert had been poorly educated by the monks at Toulon and then by a decade as a prison guard. Bernard was recently married when Javert met him, where Javert's interest was single-mindedly focused on his work. However, despite the barriers of age, class and education, they found themselves working very well together. Who is to say what bridged the gap? A similar dry wit, so often missed by others, perhaps. An attention to detail. A native intelligence that stood them above their peers in the force.

The case had lasted several weeks. When it started, Javert was not sure about his career change. He had been bored as a prison guard, but he understood the job. He understood his place. No one cared about his background. More so than any other time in his life, he had a place where he fit in. On the police force, none of that was true. In his early thirties, he was a decade older than the other new recruits. They mocked his southern provincial accent. His poor education made everything a struggle, and the paperwork! He had no idea there was so much paper in the world. He was ready to give up, go back to the galleys, when he met Inspector Bernard.

Bernard and his murder case had hooked Javert. It had been a complicated case, with evidence that had contradicted evidence, witnesses who contradicted other witnesses. There were two different people with motive, but both had alibis. Despite the crushed chest of the victim, no weapon had been found at the scene. Bernard drove Javert relentlessly and asked probing questions. Every statement that Javert made was met with, "How do you know?" or "Can you prove it?" In the field, he was patient with Javert and helped him develop the trained eye that can evaluate a scene in but a moment's time. Bernard was critical, but kind. A natural teacher, Javert flourished under his tutelage. Not only did he become a first rate detective, he began to overcome the limits of his childhood. He made a study of the regional accents of France and learned to match his accent to the situation. He was not a fluent reader, but he tackled Voltaire, Rousseau, and the classics that he should have read in school. When his internship with Bernard was over, not only was he professionally ready to take on this new job, he was excited about it as well. And for his part, Bernard had no qualms with giving Javert a letter of highest recommendation. That letter caught the attention of then Commissionaire Delavau, who stationed him first in Paris for some initial seasoning, and then later sent him to Montreil-sur-Mer to test his ability to lead a small station.

With a weary grumble, Javert tossed the report down on his desk. It was no use – he would have to read it when the sun rose. He got to his feet, buttoning his collar and tightening his cravat. He missed his regular attire, but plain clothes inspectors did not work the night shift. For now, he was an _Officier de la paix_. Not precisely a demotion, but he would rather be in plain clothes. He picked up his baton from the desk and headed out into the night.

* * *

"Ast, Piche. Report?"

Javert met the two constables under a streetlamp on a corner. Ast was young, just out of school. Javert liked the kid – he had a quiet confidence and he interacted well with the working class people on the street. They would talk to him. At the moment, Javert thought, he was a little too likable. His job was not to be a friend to everyone on the street, but to keep the peace. That is where his partner came in. Piche was a seasoned constable with a dozen years service. He had not yet made sergeant, which Javert thought was probably a good thing, but he had the grit. A bit cynical and hard, he did not usually see beyond what was most obvious.

"S'all quiet, Inspector." Piche said. "There are some dice games going on down a few alleys, but that's about it. People have mostly gone to bed. It's getting late."

"Indeed," said Javert. "How much wine is being consumed at these games?"

"Enough to make them rowdy, but it seems good natured enough. When we last looked, no one was out and out drunk."

"Okay." Javert said. "Keep an eye on them for another half an hour and then break them up."

"Okay."

Ast listened as Piche and Javert talked. When they were done, he added, "We also noticed more tagging, sir."

Almost certainly, Javert thought, it was Ast who noticed the tagging. Piche tended to miss things like that, no matter how colorful. "In the same place?"

"Yes sir."

"What does it say this time?"

Ast pulled out his notebook and smirked as he read it, "Vous êtes une pomme de terre avec le visage d'un cochon d'inde." [You are a potato with the face of a guinea pig.]

Javert looked at Ast, deadpan. "Really? That is colorful."

"Yes sir. It is illustrated and everything."

"Any witnesses?"

"No sir, but the paint was still wet when we got there. " Ast held up a fingertip tinged red. "We either interrupted them or just missed them."

"Pity. Well, write it up at the end of your shift. The prison will bring some men over to clean it up."

"Yes, sir."

"Keep an eye on those dice games. I will find you in a couple of hours."

Javert watched as the two constables headed off down an alley and he turned a different way, walking down the street. Every five or ten blocks, he would stop and check in with another pair of constables. It was the middle of the night and the city was, indeed, quieting down. Alas, he was wrong. It was proving to be a dull night after all. After the third warm night, he guessed that the thrill of summer-like temperatures was wearing off. An hour later, he came to his final pair. It took him a while to find Sergeant Corbin and Constable Nier because they were not at the rendezvous point. Javert cast around and eventually found Nier looking at what appeared to be the side of a building. Occasionally he would put a foot on the side of the building and lunge up. Landing on his feet, he stepped back and peered at the wall, clearly puzzled.

"And what would you be doing?" Javert asked. "Where's Corbin?"

Nier looked at Javert, relief plain on his face, "At last!" he said. "We were wondering when you would get here." He pointed up. "Inspector, there has been a robbery! We are trying to figure it out."

"What is there to figure out?"

Nier pointed up at a broken window on the second floor. "That window was forced inwards, sir. There is glass all over the room. There is no other evidence of forced entry. The door was locked. The other windows have not been touched. We can't figure out how they got in."

Javert looked at the wall and up at the window. The wall was wood, but the planks were overlapped so that the one above hung over the one below. "It does seem like an unlikely climb," he said. But…so had Valjean's escape. "I take it the residents are awake? What was taken?"

Nier grimaced. "Yes, they are awake. Madame is quite beside herself. Her jewelry was taken."

"Anything else?"

"Not that I have heard of, sir. Sarge left me out here, to wait for you."

"Very well." Javert looked at Nier. He did not want the kid anywhere near the evidence. Last time he was on a crime scene, he had stepped on a footprint the perpetrator had left. "You stay out here and keep an eye on things. I am going to go in and see how Corbin is doing."

Javert paused at the front door, dropping to one knee to examine the lock. In the dim light, there were no signs of the lock having been forced. The inner door knob, however…he ran his finger lightly over a film that marred the otherwise high polish. Once inside, he examined the entry and then turned to knock on the porter's door. Unsurprisingly, given the uproar, the door opened immediately.

An older man opened the door. "Can I help you?" he asked. The man spoke with a trace of an accent. Normandy? No, that was not right. Perhaps English?

Javert peered into the tiny, neat room. There was a single candle on the table casting a dim light. He turned his attention back to the man. He was a portly man, with a bald head. In his shirtsleeves, he was dressed, but rumpled. "I am Insp…Officer Javert. I would like to ask you a few questions about what happened here tonight."

"Okay." The man met Javert's eyes for a moment. "S'pose you want to start with my name?"

"That is a good start." Javert agreed.

"Frank Wheeler," he said. Definitely English. "Francois, if you prefer."

"Okay, Monsieur Wheeler," Javert said, ignoring the familiar introduction, "What can you tell me about tonight?"

"And the theft up on the third…second floor?"

"Yes."

"Not much, Officer. Madame and Monsieur Mousseau left the building at about 4 PM. They returned at about….um…several hours ago and discovered the theft."

Javert watched as the man lied for his tenant. "And they waited until midnight to report it? My constable tells me that Madam Mousseau is quite beside herself. Why would she wait?"

The man looked everywhere but at Javert. After a moment, Javert said, "In France, it is traditional to tell the truth to the police." The man turned quite pale and broke out into a sweat. Exasperated, Javert continued. "Look, M. Wheeler, I am not interested in what time the Mousseau's came home or what they were doing, except insofar as it informs my investigation into the theft. Half the city has been out late these past few nights. However, if I continue to hear lies from you, I will have to take action."

"You are right, sir. You are right. They came in after midnight – they have been home less than an hour."

"That is better." Javert said. "Okay. Now, tell me about what happened while they were out."

Again the man blanched. "Officer…I….I do not know. I was not here when it happened."

"And where were you?"

Frank Wheeler turned red to the tips of his ears.

"Never mind." Javert said. Damned spring air. "So, you heard nothing?"

"No."

"And the door was locked…when you left? And when you returned?"

"Yes. Yes."

"Who else has a key?"

"Just the old lady on the second...first floor. Madame Mura. She won't be of much help, I am afraid. She lives alone – not even with a servant! Her daughter comes with her maid every day and helps her. She is a crazy old coot. Deaf as a doorknob, too. She never goes out at night." Wheeler paused for a moment and then added, "She never goes out at all."

Javert nodded and then asked, "Does the daughter have a key?"

"Of course."

"Do you have an address?"

Wheeler briefly frowned and then nodded. "Yes…Yes I do. She gave it to me, in case anything should happen to her mother." Wheeler turned from the door and came back with a sheet of paper which he handed to Javert. Javert looked at it briefly and tucked it in his pocket.

"Very well, M. Wheeler. Thank you for your assistance."

Javert headed up the two flights of stairs to the Mousseau's residence, pausing to examine the steps on two or three occasions. The building was old, but in good repair. When he got up there, he found the door open and Sergeant Corbin standing in it, waiting for him. Corbin was a lanky sort of man, although half a head shorter than Javert. He came from Marseille and even after a decade in Paris, his provincial accent was still thick. He took some ribbing for that, but he bore it well, making jokes about it at his own expense. For Javert, Corbin's lyric accent occasionally awakened memories he would rather forget. Corbin had a good eye, and good judgement. If Javert could have chosen any member of his squad to catch this case tonight, Corbin would have been his choice.

"Evening, Sergeant."

"Evening, Inspector."

"What have you got, Sergeant?" Javert asked.

They walked into the residence together. Javert looked around. A thoroughly bourgeois apartment. They were in a well appointed sitting room. Not lavish, but the furniture was well made and in good repair. Corbin led Javert toward an open door, apparently the Mousseau's bedroom. From behind a second closed door, he could hear quiet sobbing and voices talking softly. "If this were on ground level," he said, "this would be a simple smash and run. But we are two stories up."

The room was covered in shattered glass from the window. It looked like the window had exploded inward. The glass was everywhere. Javert stepped in gingerly. He looked at Corbin. "Have you touched anything?"

Corbin smirked. "I know you better than that! Of course not."

Javert nodded. "What about the Mousseaus?"

"They were all over the place. I got them out of here. They are in the maid's room now. Madame Mousseau is having hysterics. It does not help that she cut her hands on the glass as she pawed through her vanity table. Or that her maid was found unconscious on the floor. Monsieur Mousseau has been far more level headed. I think he is serving the women tea, right about now. I had hoped they would be calmed down enough for you to talk to, when you got here."

"Do you have a list of what is missing?"

Corbin nodded and held it out. "It is preliminary, of course."

Javert scanned the list and handed it back. Then he turned his attention to the room. For several minutes he did not move. He just stood there and studied the room. The glass. The overturned state of the vanity table. The furnishings. He already knew the answer but he asked again, staring at a spot on the floor in the middle of the room. "This room is exactly as you found it?"

"Yes. Yes sir."

"Fascinating."

Javert lit a candle and walked over to the window ledge. Holding the candle close to the window frame, he carefully examined the wood work and the pieces of glass still lodged in the frame. He lightly ran a finger along the grill where the wood was apparently forced in to allow a person to fit through. After several minutes of study, he turned to examine the room from this perspective.

Corbin stood silently in the doorway, watching the Inspector work. He longed to know what was going on in his head, and wondered how he could look at the same thing for so long, and see anything new. Half an hour passed before Javert moved from the window to a spot in the center of the room. Corbin expected that would take a long time too, but after just a few minutes, Javert moved to the dressing table. He examined it for just a moment before he straightened and moved back to the door, no longer taking great care to not to step on the glass. "Let's go talk to the Mousseau's," he said.

Burning with curiosity, Corbin did not move. "Sir, what did you find?"

Javert looked at the sergeant, a slight flicker of a smile on his face. He turned back to the room so he could point out things as he explained. "The glass was initially broken by a small projectile – an arrow, perhaps, that came through this bottom pane of the window. I think it would be hard for someone to throw a rock with enough speed from 6 _toise_ below the window to make such a mess. Anyway, that is what sprayed these small particles of glass all over the room. It might also have brought up a rope. I was expecting to find markings from a grappling hook around the window, but there is no evidence of that. However, the wood of the window frame is uncommonly hard and maybe it did not make a mark. Somehow, our thief climbed up and then broke through the window. How he managed that, I do not know yet. I did not notice scuff marks on the outside wall, where he might have climbed. That will merit more study in daylight. Notice how the bigger pieces of glass are arrayed. These were broken when the thief broke through with his hand. Some of the pieces have blood on them." Javert then paused and looked at Corbin, waiting to see if he could get the next part. Corbin just looked at him expectantly. Javert sighed and went on. "However, our thief was looking to confuse the issue. If he broke these other panes of the window as he sought to come in, the big pieces would be mostly at the base of the window. Instead, they are scattered all over the room. He did that. He took the time to pick up the glass and toss it around. That is why it is haphazard and does not have the spray pattern of the smaller pieces. I think he intended us to think a large projectile was used, for some reason."

"The noise must have alerted the maid and she came in to see what was going on." Javert gestured at a glass ball, a pretty trinket that was laying in the corner. "I expect he used that to club her, but it could have been something else. He stood here and she fell here." Javert gestured at two points on the floor. "After that, he gathered his arrow and other supplies, ransacked the jewelry box and left. By the door. There is a smudge of dried blood on the inside door knob of every door between here," Javert pointed out the blood on the bedroom door knob, "and the front door. There are also drips of blood on the stairs."

Corbin blinked at his superior. "Wow," was all he said, at first. Then, "Things seemed to have quieted down next door. Let's see what the Mousseau's have to say.

* * *

The conversation with the Mousseau's was not very enlightening. Before leaving their house, Javert sat in their sitting room and wrote down everything he had observed so far. Something was not adding up. He could not put his finger on it. Yet. Mulling over the facts, he left to have a final check in with his squad before their shift was up. They returned to the station, made their reports to the next shift, and retired for the day. Javert reluctantly handed off his robbery to another inspector. How he hated night shift!


	4. April 1824 - A visit to Bernard

April 1824

The next evening, before heading out for the night, Javert ate a quiet meal at his desk before going on duty. Breakfast? Dinner? He never knew what to call it when working the night shift. As he ate, he read through the report that Commissaire Bernard had sent him.

After the fiasco with Jean Valjean, Javert had written to his mentor, figuring that Bernard would have had a useful critique. Instead, what came back was this report, with a hastily scrawled note, "This may be related? Come to Chelles, we'll talk. -B" affixed to the front.

The report was of a young girl that had been found drowned in the Marne near Chelles, just two days after Valjean had disappeared. The body had been found tangled on a branch that hung in the river. The report described her as "blond, slight and between 7 and 10 years old." She had been found dressed in rags. Based on the bloating of the body and the rigor mortis, the police estimated that she had been dead less than 24 hours. When no one had come to claim the girl's body, she had been buried in the pauper's grave. The officers had questioned the people near where she was found and upriver, but no one knew anything about the her.

Chelles was just a few leagues up river from where Valjean and the girl disappeared over the wall. Even with a small child in tow, Valjean could have walked that distance in a day. Chelles was an industrial town, big enough that a man could disappear and there were jobs where a man like Valjean might find employment. Not that he needed employment, but it might aid his cover. If the dead girl was the girl he had seen Valjean travelling with, Javert had no doubt that Valjean was far from Chelles by this time. However, it was a lead.

Glancing toward the Commissaire's door, Javert determined that his arrondissement's commander had not gone home for the day. Standing, he walked over and tapped on the door. M. Rondeau looked up. "Yes, Javert?"

"Sir," Javert said. "I would like to requisition a horse for tomorrow."

M. Rondeau raised an eyebrow. "And where do you need to go?" He was well aware of Javert's history of disappearing without a word.

"Chelles, sir. I got this," Javert handed over the report. "I would like to follow up with M. Bernard."

Rondeau reached out a gloved hand and flipped through the report briefly. "I see," he said. Then he shrugged. "This is related to the Valjean case?"

Javert nodded.

"That seems reasonable. You are thinking of going tomorrow?"

"Yes sir."

"Okay. I need you out there tonight. I especially want you following up on that theft from last night. But, I will get Officer Erwan to take your shift tomorrow night."

Gratitude did not come easy to Javert – especially since he generally had so little respect for Rondeau. Rondeau, as far as Javert was concerned, was a political beast, more interested in his career than in the pursuit of the law. This unexpected kindness surprised him. "Thank you," he said.

Rondeau shrugged. "You are clearly worn thin. Night shift does not agree with you. Go, follow your lead. Report back to me the day after tomorrow. I'll talk to Delavau and see if your penance has lasted long enough. I'd rather have you back as an Inspector."

* * *

Javert tapped on the door of the Commissaire of Chelles. This was a large, pleasant office with a window behind the Commissaire's desk. The Commissaire sat with his back to the door and the high backed chair hid the man from Javert's sight. Without turning to see who it was, Commissaire Bernard called, "Come!" Javert took two steps into the office and stood at parade rest, waiting.

After a minute, Bernard turned to see who it was and with undisguised delight, he came to his feet and took three giant steps over to his visitor. "Javert! Good to see you!" Bernard reached out to shake Javert's hand and then pull him into a brief embrace. Javert, expecting this display, reciprocated stiffly. Bernard took a step back and looked at his former student. "Good God, man. You look like hell."

Javert shrugged. "Nothing some sleep won't cure."

Bernard nodded. "I heard the Prefect had you on night shift." Bernard shook his head. "A bloody waste, if you ask me."

"It's what I..."

Bernard interrupted him. "Javert. I am not going to take that rubbish about it being what you deserve. Save it for that idiot Rondeau." He walked back to his desk he gestured at a chair across the desk. "Sit. Let's talk about Valjean."

* * *

Bernard called for coffee. A constable brought it, along with several small pastries. Bernard smiled when he saw them. "Here – try these. There is a baker down the street who insists on bringing these by several times a week. "

Javert took his coffee and one of the pastries. "Why?" he asks.

Bernard shrugged. "My inspectors do good work. He was in a spot of trouble. We helped him out." Javert nodded. In Montreuil-sur-Mer, he had had a similar relationship with a couple of the merchants in town.

For a few minutes, their conversation centered on pleasantries. Javert asked after Bernard's family, Bernard asked about the latest of Parisian police gossip. When their first cup of coffee and the pastries were gone, Bernard cleared his desk of whatever he had been working on, and pulled out a folder. He spread its contents on his desk. Leaning forward, Javert recognized a copy of his report, the report that Bernard had sent him, a few other reports he had not seen and a large map showing the region of Eastern Paris through Chelles and a bit beyond.

"Let's recap what we know. " Bernard said. "You know this Valjean from Toulon, correct?"

Javert nodded. "I was there for about ten years of his sentence. I left Toulon in 1813 and he was released in 1815. Aside from his periodic escape attempts, he was not one to cause trouble. Sullen, angry and beastly strong, that I remember. I noticed his name….oh, probably at around January of 1816….reading the monthly list from the Prefecture of escapees and parole violators."

"Then, in 1820, you were sent to Montreuil-sur-Mer." Bernard prompted.

"In retrospect, I recognized him almost immediately, but I was hesitant because he was so much changed. I had not realized what a chameleon he was. He changes his skin so easily." Javert shrugged. "I doubted myself."

Watching his protégé, Bernard twirled the hairs in his short beard. "We don't need to rehash all of that. Suffice to say, you served along side Valjean, then called Madeleine, for three years before the affair at the courthouse in Arras. The chameleon revealed itself and you arrested Valjean. He escaped, and then you found him and arrested him again a few days later as he was headed for…"

"Montfermeil." Javert supplied. He pointed at the map, at the town of Montfermeil, between Paris and Chelles. "Yes. I think that at that point, he was going after the prostitute's daughter."

"He was returned to Toulon, where presumably he did a good job of keeping his head down given the ease of his escape."

Javert shook his head. "Those idiots. I sent a warning letter when he was returned that he would try and escape."

Bernard nodded. "He was presumed dead. You figured the matter closed until…"

"Until I heard about a kidnapping in Montfermeil. It did not make sense. I went out and checked it out. The person who reported the kidnapping, a man named…" Javert paused a moment to recall the name, "Thenardier, had recanted the story by the time I got there. He was lying – he had it written all over him – but there was nothing I could do. Later, I heard about this old poor man who was known for giving alms." Javert pointed to another spot on the edge of the map, south of the Cite, in the 12th arrondissement where the Gorbeau house was located "That struck me as something Valjean would do, based on some of the crazy acts of charity that I saw him perform in Montreuil-sur-Mer. I went out and checked it out. I was right." With a sigh, he shook his head. "As in Montreuil-sur-Mer, I let him slip through my fingers."

Bernard frowned. "Enough of that. I wanted you to review the evidence, not so you could beat yourself up, but because I need you to recognize an important fact."

Javert looked up. "What would that be?"

"There is no one else, on God's green Earth, who knows this man better than you. He has no family, no friends. He has nowhere to go to ground. Your instincts are good, my friend. And, if he is going to be caught, the only one who can do it is you."

Slowly, the older man nodded. "Yes. I suppose you are right, sir."

"So now comes the tough question for you." Bernard looked Javert in the eye. "Do you want him caught?"

Javert did not hesitate. "Of course. He is a thief, a forger, he broke parole."

"You know as well as I do, there are many thieves, forgers and parole violators running loose in France. Why is this one important? Why Valjean?"

Javert looked down, saying nothing. Bernard watched him. "It's personal, isn't it?" After a moment, Javert nodded. "So long as you remember that, I will help you. This is not about the Law, or if it is, that is the second reason. This is about you settling a score. Agreed?"

It was a long moment before Javert responded. His voice took on a great weight, as if uttering the word cost him the kind of strength it had taken Valjean to lift the cart. "Agreed."

"Well done, Javert." Bernard said softly. "Now let's look at what I have got have got for you."

Bernard pulled out the reports. There was the one with the dead girl that Javert had already seen. There was another one of an old man, traveling without papers, who had been briefly detained before he gave the constables a slip. There was a third of from a village further up the Marne of an old man with a young girl who had been living with a shepherd for the past fortnight before disappearing and leaving the girl behind. To be honest, none of this sounded quite right to Javert, but he was nothing but thorough. He took notes, studied the map, asked questions. In the conversation with Bernard, he came to appreciate just how much he knew about Valjean.

When the conversation was done, Javert took his leave. He was going to spend the rest of his day checking out the leads. Bernard detailed him a constable to be a local guide. It was a frustrating, pointless afternoon. The dead girl might have been the prostitute's daughter, but the rest of Bernard's leads were dead ends. Discouraged, but thoughtful, Javert returned to Paris after dark, and slept the sleep of utter exhaustion.

* * *

Author's note: I began this as an experiment in writing a serial, but I am finding that it is driving me crazy. I keep looking at the stats, I keep comparing my story to other stories in similar states of development. It is stupid and I would like to think I had outgrown such childish games...oh...at least a couple of decades ago. Alas, no.

I have not written fiction in a long time. I write a great deal of expository and other non-fiction material. While that has greatly improved my grammar, it has not done much for my dramatic flair or my ability to pace a story. Those are things I am re-discovering. And, I think, I will need a lot more practice before posting a serial really makes sense.

At this point, I have posted the parts of this story I had more or less written when I started posting. Now, I think I am going to go on a posting hiatus and focus on writing. I am either going to get to the end, or at least get up to the prologue, which will serve as a natural break point, anyway. I think this is probably for the better for the story, too, because I have got to get the details right for Javert to sort out the situation that will eventually land him in handcuffs, in the prologue. Hopefully in a few weeks, I will have several chapters to post.

For those of you who are reading, thank you! As a child of a decade before the internet, I think it is awesome and incredibly cool that there are people all over the world who have read this!


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